Catfish in Israel: Who Knew?

It happens sometimes. Rarely. But it happens. I’m working away in my soul food kitchen, and Deb from northern Israel (Karmiel) calls to ask about reservations. She’s American. She knows her regional cuisine, which is a bit unusual here. She wants to know if I can make blackened catfish a la Paul Prudhomme.

It’s the first time I’ve ever heard anyone mention catfish in Israel. “Oh yeah,” she says, they’re fairly plentiful up in the Sea of Galilee, not far from where I live. But no one eats them.” I’m blown away. She gives me the Hebrew name, which sounds like the name for tilapia. I’m disappointed. I’m not a big fan of tilapia. Long story. I call my local fishmonger. Yep, Yossi can get them for me. I’m over-the-moon excited, blown away. I know. I said that already.

You’d think that after years of serving up southern cuisine here in Israel, I would have a firm grasp of provisioning. You’d think. You’d also be wrong. Again, it doesn’t happen all the time, but it does happen regularly enough to discover that stuff I thought would be impossible to find here is actually local. Rhubarb, for instance. OK, it’s a short growing season, but still. Or Wagyu beef. OK, obscenely expensive and not the quality of beef I want, but even so. Japanese eggplant? Check. Vidalia sweet onions? Unh, no, unfortunately. The coarse-milled yellow corn grits, white corn flour, and Sea Island red peas for hoppin’ John: These I’m waiting to pick up on my next trip stateside. But I digress.

The thing here is this: Even in a country as geographically petite as Israel, one can find a helluva lot more variety in foodstuffs than I ever would have thought, in large part owing to the varying microclimes in the country. And the range of options seems to grow every year. Granted, certain things, like true grass-fed beef, are a problem, owing in large part to the lack of real estate.

But even so, I really can’t complain. I mean, who sudda thunk? Catfish in Tel Aviv. Of course, no one is going to be able to tolerate the heat from Prudhomme’s creole recipe. But that is another story, for another day.